


No Light of Day

by objectlesson



Series: Tom of Finland Universe [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: BDSM, Belts, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Face-Fucking, Humiliation, Impact Play, Leather, M/M, Minor Choking/Breathplay, Spit Gifting, Subspace, spitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:34:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23111041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: Illya likes pretending, if only for a moment, that he is the smaller and weaker and more malleable of the two of them, knowing with a bone-deep certainty Napoleon has him in this moment, that he will let him fall to infinitesimal pieces but he will find and save and collect every shard to patch back together again into a whole. That he can lose himself, for Napoleon will never lose him.Or, the heavy BDSM sequel to the Tom of Finland fic
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Series: Tom of Finland Universe [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1662901
Comments: 19
Kudos: 248





	No Light of Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HurdyGurdy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HurdyGurdy/gifts).



> This is for my dear beta and dearer friend Jen. I am very sad I moved before we could complete our multi-year ritual of me tattooing you on your b-day before we have a wild hang-session, but I’m there with you in spirit! Plus how cool and fitting is it that the very first thing I do on my brand new spankin’ internet is post a birthday fic for you??? VERY FITTING. I love you so much and hope you love this and sorry I couldn’t incorporate pregnancy and or pissing into it but there’s only so much you can do with these two. 
> 
> For other readers: this is a sequel to my Tom of Finland Napoleon fic! I wrote a shorter and very bad version of it on tumblr awhile ago, and this has very little in common with it save for the idea, but you can see hints if you squint. 
> 
> I didn’t put a dubcon tag in this because it’s very consensual, but that being said this is not the best kink negotiation in the world and the play is unsafe. I don't recommend switching impact tools mid-scene without explicitly checking in with your partner but hey this is two closeted men in the 60s so it’s not like they had great resources for that stuff and a-historical BDSM practices in fic really annoy me so I just use discretion when reading please! thank youuuu

—-

Illya wants Napoleon all the time, now. It’s like a virus: dormant in his body forevermore, even between fevers. It’s become a part of him, a once broken bone that aches during thunderstorms, locked away in the prison of his own flesh and blood and sinew so he cannot press his own fingers to the pain to loosen anything, for it’s deeper than muscle. He cannot do a single thing to get rid of it. Like a scar, he cannot cut it from his body. It would only leave another, larger scar. 

So, he lets himself want. 

The feeling is ever present. He wants Napoleon when he’s sleep rumpled and blinking in the mornings, he wants him when he is gaunt and sunken from exhaustion on nights they’re staked out through dawn, sharing black coffee to keep their eyes from drifting shut. He wants him when he is silver in the moonlight, and when the sun makes the oil in his hair shine. He wants him when he is on his knees. He wants him when he is towering over him. He wants him, and he wants, and he wants _always._

Still, there’s something mindless and wild and dangerous about the particular _way_ he wants him when he looks like he stepped right out of a Tom of Finland drawing. 

It’s not because Illya is partial to any of the specifics it seems Tom himself was partial too. He’s not _specifically_ aroused by uniforms, or facial hair, or men so large they become caricatures of themselves. In fact, Illya is still somewhat uncomfortable with that world, all its dark corners and boot-blacking bars. Napoleon will occasionally mention things in passing that shock him: the notion of places men like them go, alone, to find other men like them. The notion of existing this way in _public,_ even if that public is hidden behind layers of obfuscation, designed to be witnessed only by whose who know what to look for. Who seek it out. It dually intrigues and terrifies him, but he does not find it _arousing._ He still hates the idea of being surrounded by men, touched by men, looked at by men outside the small silent world he and Napoleon have built together. But then, when _Napoleon_ looks like one of those men? The perfect, idyllic archetype of masculinity (not the bastardization of it, the distortion wielded by the repressed, angry masses, but the _purity_ : masculinity fashioned solely for _other men_ to hunger for)? Illya is beside himself. He becomes weak, and struggles to look him in the eye while his cheeks burn. 

It’s perhaps nostalgic. That this version of Napoleon rockets him right back to that hot, suffocating tent, the smell of both their sweat permeating the air so thickly it burnt his throat. The realization of what it meant to want another man, to _love_ another man. The feel of coarse hair against his chapped lips for the very first time. The fear, and then, the fear not mattering anymore. The sensation of caving to something vast and dark he had been battling his entire life. Napoleon’s hands all over his skin, his cock fucking his throat and then, finally, the surrender. 

Seeing him like that reminds Illya of every moment of that night and then, every moment that followed. And something about the memory weakens and melts and silences him. Bowls him over with the power of finally feeling desire, of _being_ desired. 

Usually, Napoleon prefers being clean shaven, pristine, put together. He complains about direct sunlight, when sweat collects in the ditches of his elbows, and he will strip off his suit jackets and pop the button of his cuff to roll the sleeves of his dress shirt up when he decides he’s too hot. He is also a tender lover. Methodical, exploratory, _sweet._ He likes holding Illya’s face between his palms and kissing him slow and hungry for hours over holding him down _,_ arms pinned behind his back. He shows Illya how to oil his fingers and tuck them inside the burning clench of his body, stretch and loosen him until he’s ready to be fucked. He prefers spending lazy Sundays in his robe tucked around Illya’s back, pressing idle kisses to his shoulder blades while he does crosswords, or oils his gun. Most days they spend together, there is no vast exchange of power, or of pain. They meet in the middle on uneven, yet solid footing. 

But perhaps Napoleon remembers that first time in the tent with as much gratitude and nostalgia as Illya does, because there are moments when his eyes darken and his grip tightens and Illya will collapse in on himself with desire, like a building upon demolition. The are days when Napoleon rolls Illya over and shoves his face into the bedspread and whispers vile, dirty, stomach twisting things to him. Days when he pretends to be in charge, days when Illya lets him pretend, and loses himself to that pretending. 

It is thrilling, because it’s a game. Instead of attempting to cut off the scar, Napoleon gently revisits it, touches it with curious, loving fingers, presses into the old-itchy sting of it as if he is saying _remember all the hoops I had to make you jump through to make you admit you loved me? Remember when you couldn’t say no anymore? Remember when you finally, finally let me take you?_

And Illya will shut his eyes and arch his back and groan, because _yes,_ yes he remembers.

Illya cannot predict when Napoleon will do such a thing. It often happens when he is least expecting it, when he was perhaps just beginning to forget how much he likes being broken, on occasion. How wonderful it can feel to be _used_ roughly enough to let go, when the one using you also loves you so much he’ll drag you back up from the abyss once it’s all over. 

Illya is up well past midnight pacing one night, because it is the night Napoleon is returning to their discreet, shared flat in Manhattan after a painstakingly _long_ solo mission abroad. Illya has already finished a bottle of red wine over the course of several hours, and is considering cracking open another even if he _knows_ it might put him to sleep, when he hears footsteps, followed by the familiar scrape of a key in the door. 

Relief floods his body, sinks him like a ship. 

But when Napoleon lets himself in, Illya hardly recognizes him. He has not shaved for perhaps the whole mission, jaw dark with stubble, eyes flashing bright-blue and conspiratorial as his lips twist under a thick, groomed mustache. Illya stops in his tracks. 

He is _also_ wearing absurd leather motorcycle boots laced up his thick calves all the way to the knee, and over his shoulder he’s slung a black biker’s jacket, something he likely stole since it is easily several sizes too small for him. And just like that, even though he _prefers_ the way Napoleon looks dressed in Armani and smooth-faced and smirking, Illya is already trembling, thickening in his trousers at the sight. 

“If you close your mouth, you won’t drool on the carpet,” Napoleon says easily as he shuts the door behind him, one hand idly scrubbing over the hair above his lip as if it’s always there, as if this is not a costume intended to serve a particular and fleeting purpose. 

Illya shuts his mouth, and stands, ready to stride across the room and grab Napoleon with a fist in his crisp, too-tight white shirt and say _I missed you, I miss you always, I have been waiting for you,_ but Napoleon turns to him, points at the floor before he has a chance to say anything at all. “Down, on your stomach. Let me see that beautiful ass.” 

The words are clipped and beautiful, and they hang there in the air for a moment like smoke from the glowing cherry of a cigar. 

Illya bites the inside of his cheek, face burning even though it is silly to be humiliated by something that is only a game. He likes it, though. Likes the way the fake-humiliation coils hot and low in his stomach, likes the way the word _ass_ sounds spit from Napoleon’s still grinning mouth, likes _imagining_ Napoleon could overpower him if he tried, even though they both know he could not. He likes pretending, if only for a moment, that he is the smaller and weaker and more malleable of the two of them, knowing with a bone-deep certainty Napoleon _has_ him in this moment, that he will let him fall to infinitesimal pieces but he will find and save and collect every shard to patch back together again into a whole. That he can lose himself, for Napoleon will never lose him. 

Reflexively he clambers down to his stomach, cheek rolling against the recently swept floor so that he can look up at Napoleon with begging blue eyes. “Like this?” he asks, voice already thick. 

Napoleon clucks his tongue against his teeth, walks around Illya in a neat circle, leather of his boots squeaking all the while. “Pull your trousers down,” he orders then, standing on one foot to use the toe of his boot to untuck Illya’s turtle neck from the back of his slacks, digging the sole into the curve of his spine punishingly. “Show me.” 

Illya peels himself off the floor using his abdominals and hastily unbuckles his belt and pants so that he can wiggle them down over the curve of his ass. The whole spectacle is wildly mortifying, burns him up from the inside out so comprehensively he feels like he could breaks something, like his soul could rip free from his ribcage in shame. He shakes as he lowers himself back down to the floor, cock hard from just _this._ From being told what to do. From being stepped on by the man he loves. 

Napoleon inhales with a hiss, gaze hot, palpably burning into Illya’s skin. Napoleon is always _looking_ at him, studying him like a map, learning all his cracks and fissures and valleys and mountains. But like this, it _hurts_ to be looked at. It is more like being dissected, split open, _knowing_ that Napoleon is not just admiring him, but that he is taking him _apart,_ planning his attack, imagining all the filthy things he can and will do to him. The anticipation is delicious, terrifying, and it makes Illya’s hips rock expectantly, because he cannot stop himself. 

After an achingly long moment, Napoleon moves his boot to Illya’s ass. Presses the arch down between the pert cheeks, grinding him into the earth with enough pressure Illya breathlessly squirms and gasps under his heel. “I missed you so much, Peril,” Napoleon says then, pivoting so he opens him up, staring down into the furled, dark core of him. 

Illya groans against the floor, and presses up into Napoleon’s foot. “I missed you,” he murmurs. “Sir.” 

Napoleon leans his weight in, shifting to further open Illya up, and then quite suddenly, there’s a mouthful of hot, thick saliva landing on him. It hits him near the tailbone before he feels it slide down into the spread-wide crack of his ass and he cries out at the sensation, hole flexing, fluttering under the filthy wet of it. “God, look at you,” Napoleon marvels. “Want my cock so bad. Already begging for me.” 

“Yes sir, please—please,” Illya groans, even though he knows Napoleon will make him wait. That he likes to get him wet and sloppy first, pushing and testing and denying until neither of them can stand it a moment longer. Here on the floor, he could wait an eternity, though. Something _happens_ to him when Napoleon plays rough, puts him where he wants him, barks orders and bathes him in spit. He sinks and he sinks, somewhere quiet and safe where the only sound is the thud of his own blood in his ears, and the lilting timber of Napoleon’s voice. Time slows down, becomes molasses thick and mires Illya within it, and all he has to do is _exist,_ like this, in order to be enough. It’s overwhelming in the very best way and it happens so fucking _quickly_ sometimes, it’s as if he’s falling. As if he’s already fallen. 

Napoleon moves his foot at long last in favor of crouching down beside Illya, knees bent, leather shining as he rubs his fingers through the messy froth of spit. He ends up nudging against Illya’s hole with such irreverence it makes Illya grunt with wanting more, or perhaps, wanting less. Or wanting _exactly_ this, being treated like a plaything, a well loved object. “Look so good on the floor for me,” he breathes, pushing a finger in and crooking it. Illya gasps, bends, lifts his hips to meet the intrusion but before he can even properly buck up against it Napoleon is gone, withdrawing in a dirty drag. When his hand returns, it’s open and flat, striking Illya’s ass hard enough he feels it all the way up his spine in a single, resounding zing of electricity. His stomach swoops, mouth falling open around a silent gasp. 

Napoleon does it again, harder this time, all the power in his whole strong, lovely arm reserved for Illya and Illya alone in this moment. “Want to mark you up,” he declares. “So you can’t look in the mirror without seeing me. So you can’t _sit_ without feeling me.” 

“Please—I’m yours,” Illya manages to grind out, bending one knee out to the side to shift his weight, open himself up as he arches his back. He is so used to standing like a soldier that _curling_ like this, folding and finding concavity where there is usually nothing but straight lines, feels like a revelation. 

In such a position, twisted open and broken, Illya takes strike after strike with his eyes closed, his mouth gaping. Napoleon hits him so many times he loses count, all with varying degrees of force so he cannot settle into a rhythm, cannot brace against the impact or prepare. Instead, he simply accepts it, whimpers into the carpet, rocks against it so his hard cock feels raw from chaffing. 

Eventually, Napoleon stops to let him breathe, rises up to gaze down at what he’s done. Even from where’s floating, Illya still manages to find a hot lick of shame inside himself. He knows what he looks like right now, how ruined, how desperate, how red his skin has become with layers and layers of Napoleon’s handprints. He can smell his own sweat over the bitterness of wine in his exhalations, and under all of that, the comforting salt of Napoleon’s skin, Napoleon’s leather. “Peril,” Napoleon says gently, resting the heel of his boot in the small of Illya’s back with prudence for a moment. “Still alright?” 

“Wonderful,” Illya mumbles out. “More.” 

“God,” Napoleon hisses, applying considerably more pressure into his step, so the skin bunches under the sole of his boot and Illya winces at the nervy pain, the pressure. “You _did_ miss me.” 

“So terribly,” Illya admits, and he is about to turn around to _look_ at Napoleon, to behold the way his eyes become such a bright, brilliant, awfulblue when he is like this, when he’s stilled by the distinct sound of Napoleon unbuckling his belt and sliding it from its loops with measured grace. 

It makes his breath catch. Napoleon has never hit him with a belt, and the idea of it is positively terrifying, at the same time Illya _wants_ it, wants to stomach it, to weather it, to _bear the marks_ of it. So, he grits his teeth, and tries to keep breathing. 

The first impact is careful, experimental. He can’t tell exactly how Napoleon is holding it but he suspects it’s looped a few times into a stiff, foot-long, flexible paddle of sorts. The leather is still warm from being so close to Napoleon’s skin, and Illya _wants_ it, he wants it so badly he nearly sobs with relief when the second strike comes, this time more confident, more precise. 

The sting comes a moment or two after the cracking sound, the sensation of it kissing his skin. It takes his breath away, makes him tense up and yelp, sharp and animal. “Good?” Napoleon asks, his big, warm hand palming over the welt he just made, thumbing into the swelling of it and stabilizing Illya, making him hiss and shiver. 

“Yes,” he promises, even though it hurts _so much more._ A cleaner, sharper pain, one that makes his vision white out and his breath hiss between his teeth, where the blunt thud of Napoleon’s palm makes everything red, blood rising to the surface of his skin, clouding his vision. It’s less primal and more sterile, perhaps, and he likes it but he’s uncertain of how much more of it he can withstand. “For now.” 

“You don’t—get—to—decide—when I’m through with you,” Napoleon tells him, punctuating each word with a crack of the belt against Illya’s ass. And of course, he’s only saying that. He will stop whenever Illya asks him to, he checks in constantly _every_ time they do anything that hurts, and that is _precisely_ why it feels so good, why Illya can let _go_ and allow the tide to sweep him away into Napoleon’s arms. He will find him, he will take him home. “ _God,_ you’re so red,” Napoleon hisses out then, spitting again, this time directly onto Illya’s swollen, inflamed skin. It stings and he groans, rutting his cock into the carpet pathetically. 

Napoleon nudges his hip with his boot. “Roll over,” he demands, and Illya does, immediately, showing him how hard he is, how much he’s dripped all over the floor, beads of it glistening in the hair of his stomach. He watches through a haze as Napoleon’s eyes darken, longing painted on his face so clearly it makes him dizzy to see. He knows where he stands, how lost to this _he_ is. Witnessing the same stricken expression on Napoleon clenches a fist up in his heart, and he doesn’t think it will ever let go. This is who he is. How he is scarred. 

“My Illyusha, so filthy,” Napoleon tuts, cocking his head and moving to stand over him, one boot on either side of his hips. He’s tenting his own trousers, hard cock pressed into the flies lewdly and it makes Illya’s mouth flood with how badly he wants to taste him, the musk and sweat that’s inevitably been building from the exertion of beating Illya. “You love this, don’t you?” 

“Yes sir,” Illya answers, voice reedy, thick, far away. 

“You love it when men hurt you. When they use you,” he adds, marveling down at him, thumbing over his mustache with the hand that’s not white-knuckled around his own belt. 

“Only you,” Illya reminds him, hands flexing on either side of his own body, gripping fruitlessly at the carpet to keep from touching himself. 

“All mine, then,” Napoleon murmurs, sounding overwhelmed. “My toy to hurt. To use.” And then, in a fluid, practiced motion, Napoleon loops his belt around the back of Illya’s neck and hauls him up by it using both hands, forearms tight with the motion. “Open up,” he orders. 

Illya does, and he should have expected it but he’s still shocked into a pathetic moan when Napoleon pulls him close, and spits right into his mouth, the hot salty burn of it landing on his outstretched tongue. “Swallow,” Napoleon demands, even though Illya is already doing so, already sucking it down gratefully, gasping in the hold of the leather noose around his throat. “ _God,_ you really are all mine. That mouth is mine. Mine to spit in, to fuck.” 

“Yes, yes sir,” Illya sputters, struggling to breathe. Napoleon notices and loosens his belt, hooking his fingers under the band of it to touch fever-hot skin. “Please. I will do whatever you want. Let me—let me taste you,” Illya begs, and Napoleon groans, getting a fist in his turtleneck and pulling him close so his red cheek presses into his cock. 

“On your knees,” he says, and it sounds less like a demand, more like a plea. Like he is so desperate for Illya’s lips drawn tight and plush and pink around him he cannot maintain composure, either. “Let me fuck that throat.” 

Illya does as he’s told, body a mess of pain and hunger as he arranges himself, an absolute mess with his trousers still around his knees, his cock hard and bobbing against his stomach as he sits his bruised ass on his heels and watches Napoleon unbutton his pants. When he gets his cock out, it’s hard and dripping, fluid beaded at the tip and Illya does not need to be told to clean it off. He murmurs wordlessly, bends his head, and dutifully licks the crown, stunned to silence by the salt, the spice. 

“Fuck. Missed that tongue. Missed having you right here,” Napoleon says, touch tender for a few seconds as he combs his fingers gently through Illya’s hair. Then he must remember himself, remember what he’s doing, because he tightens a fist and tugs, dragging Illya down his length roughly. 

And this, choking like this, eyes burning and streaming and nothing but the smell of Napoleon’s pubic hair surrounding him like a drug—this is where Illya wants to be always, where he’s _meant_ to be. He softens, mouth going slack and desperate as Napoleon uses him. 

He _knows_ how to suck cock. He’s become quite proficient in it the last several months and he loves finding out exactly what Napoleon likes, how to make him whine, how to flatten his tongue out and protect his teeth with his lips and relax his throat so he can swallow. He isn’t sucking cock right now, though. He’s just kneeling there with his eyes forced open to watch and his palms spread wide on the flexing muscles of Napoleon’s thighs while he’s _fucked._ Dragged up and down by his hair, Napoleon staring at him with his beautiful mouth open and a stunned line through his forehead, mustache shining in sweat and saliva as he licks his lips over and over again. Illya is distantly aware he’s close to coming himself, so at some point he takes his cock in hand and jerks it a few times and without even fully realizing it’s happening until it is, he’s sobbing around the thickness of Napoleon’s cock and finishing over his fist, ribbons of it landing on those leather boots like holy oil. 

Napoleon finishes soon after that, gasping and holding Illya down while he gags, cock flexing as he breeds his mouth, so much fucking come Illya can’t possibly swallow it all down so a few frothy white mouthfuls of it come back up, dripping down his chin, his neck, onto the floor. He thinks about pulling off to lick it up, but Napoleon is holding him fast and he couldn’t move if he tried, so he just stays there, limp in Napoleon’s iron grip. 

Eventually he relents and sinks to his knees, holding Illya’s face between trembling palms to study him, turn him left and right before kissing him deeply. He licks his own come up out of Illya’s mouth and makes a face when he pulls back. “I haven’t jacked off in _days_ because I wanted to give you a proper load, but I’m afraid I didn’t realize that would make it _taste_ different.” 

“It doesn’t—I didn’t notice,” Illya rasps, pitching forward bonelessly, head lolling on Napoleon’s broad shoulder. He’s floating, he’s disintegrating, and it’s _bliss,_ just to collapse here, held up by the solidity of Naploeon’s heaving chest.His shirt still smells faintly of leather, even though he tossed the jacket aside long ago. “Who did you steal these awful motorcycle clothes from?” he slurs, pressing a kiss to Napoleon’s too stubble-rough jaw. “They don’t fit you.” 

Napoleon scoffs. “From an evidence locker at headquarters. Quite illegal and the trip delayed me a whole hour so I almost said to hell with it…wanted to get home to you. Missed you so,” he murmurs, thumbing up salt-crusted tears from the tail of Illya’s eye.

“Missed you, cowboy,” Illya mumbles, palming up and down Napoleon’s back, re-learning the shape of him. He shifts, ass scraping against his own heels and a pain so sudden and delicious shoots through him, makes him shudder. “Fuck. If I cannot walk tomorrow, it is your fault.” 

Napoleon grins, slides a palm down to cup the hot, swollen skin before his smile flickers into a grimace. “I take full responsibility. We’ll ice it. I’ll rub lotion onto it.” 

“Such chivalry. Or is it military training…is this what they teach you in America? To tend to enemy’s wounds after you make them?” Illya teases before kissing Napoleon, sighing at the scrape of his mustache on his upper lip. 

“Hm. Only when one is madly in love with his enemy,” he offers. 

And Illya makes fists in his shirt, drags him as close as he can, and spreads out mouth wide and hot and wet over his pulse, because he _wants_ him, so badly it makes him crazy. He wants Napoleon all the time, now, even if he’s exhausted, even if he’s broken, even if they are both men and that’s a terribly impractical thing to have happened to him. Still, he supposes it’s alright in the end, because he _has_ him, now. He has him right here. 


End file.
